Being There
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: This story imagines what might have happenedafter the end of the Christmas Special if Isobel had accepted Richard's proposal at Thirsk. He tries to help her cope with the loss of her son.
1. Chapter 1

**This started off on Friday night as "birthday present" to the Richobel shippers, but I neglected to finish it before my actual birthday on Saturday so here it is now. Also, I hardly ever write in the present tense like this, so I don't know if it's awful or not. **

**This works on the premise of: "What is Isobel had accepted Richard when he asked her to marry him at Thirsk but everything else remained the same?" This is a oneshot, I think. **

At the time she was not entirely sure what made her accept his proposal. It certainly wasn't the way he phrased it; it had sounded more like a business proposition than anything else, sitting there together at a little trestle table in Thirsk. Rationally, she had thought she would say no. She was even ready to say it, she paused and drew the very breath with which she would gently put him down. But then, she saw the genuine disappointment in his face; the crushing effect that even the anticipation of her rejection had on him. She couldn't say it. It caught in her throat. He was her friend; she couldn't hurt him like that. She knew he was happy when he was with her and she couldn't spoil that; happiness is so hard to come by. So she smiled at him, gratefully, and gracefully too, she hopes, and said yes.

She likes this version of events. She likes to think that she accepted him out of some degree of higher motivations. Rather than it being just because of the thought, the memory, the fear, of that grey, all-consuming loneliness she has found herself feeling these days; particularly when she sits alone at home in the evenings; particularly just after he left her after the dinners they shared together, with a handsome smile and a gallant kiss on the hand, that kept floating irrepressibly back into her mind for the rest of the night. She likes to think, but she can't say for definite.

All she can say for definite is that now it has paid off. She is glad they went ahead with their wedding in spite of the accident, although they were unsure at the time. It pays now to have someone in the house every time she comes home, someone to distract her from the void in her chest which she now realises was previously occupied by something completely dependent upon her son's heartbeat. It helps that he's very kind to her, that he has seen and understands grief; and knows that sometimes she wants to be alone, sometimes she needs company to keep her sane, sometimes she must do _something _or else she'll go mad, sometimes she feels so helpless and weak that all she can do is stare into the dying embers of the fire. He understands so well, and, in his quiet way, he sets about helping her as best he can. It helps even to live somewhere else, so that every step in every room, every brick is not coloured with Matthew.

He whispered to her quietly on their wedding day. _I love you._ Only once, and he hasn't done it again since. It was quiet enough for no one else to hear but loud enough for neither of them to mistake what was said. He's so kind to her, so very kind, and he cares, actively he cares for her; and, though he hasn't said it again, she knows he meant it, from the bottom of his heart.

But he's not her husband. He is and he isn't. They both wear their rings, and sometimes she catches him looking affectionately at her left hand. Sometimes she catches herself looking affectionately at his. She shares his bed. But they haven't slept together; not yet. On their wedding night they fell onto the sheets beside each other, tired out from the trip to the registry office in York, their legs just starting to taper off in opposite directions, but their hands locked together. They fell asleep together almost like children. During the night his arms seemed to move over to mimic their hands, and he held her. But that was all. He thinks that she isn't ready for it; and in absolute truth, she doesn't _know_ for certain whether she is or whether she isn't, but she hasn't the courage to tell him that she thinks he might be wrong. She hasn't the courage to seize him by the lapels of his jacket, the front of his pyjamas and say, "I need you. I just _need _you." The trouble is, if they wait until she's absolutely ready, they may be waiting forever. Certainly there is no hope for them if they wait for her to recover from Matthew's death. They _will _wait forever.

…**...**

They live together very _politely_, he thinks. It's supposed to be impossible to always be polite to the person you live with, especially if there's only two in the house, but they're managing pretty well up until now. Heavens, when she smiles at him it's almost shy. When she's quiet, he always checks that she wants him to be there.

"If you want to be here," she invariably replies, throwing him a reserved but pleasant look.

To which he never quite knows what to say. But generally he stays; because he _does _want to be there. That's the point of all of this, he supposes. He wants to be here, he's _vowed_ to be.

He'd like to say he thinks she's coping admirably with everything that's happened to her. On the surface she is. She's gracefully composed; she's dignified in her grief; she's strong. She scarcely misses her daily visit up to the house to see her grandson, he knows she even helps to console Mary, sometimes Edith too, just by talking about him to them. She's remarkable, he thinks. Ruefully. He finds her fortitude literally superhuman, and it frightens him.

The point is that no one should be coping the way she is. If he wasn't living with her, he'd hypothesise that she was putting on an admirably brave face and crumbling the second that she was alone. But he's living with her and he hasn't heard her cry once, not even quietly at night. He won't let himself sleep until she does just to check. No one should be able to cope the way she's coping; he thinks it's probably unhealthy. He knows what she needs: she needs to scream and rage and howl, or she needs to break something, watch something completely shatter, or she needs to hit him, to batter his chest with her fists, or she needs to make love with a violent intensity, enough to break her, to just break her, and allow her to feel again a strong feeling that's not pain. But as much as he knows that this is the case; equally he knows that she must choose the time herself. When she's ready.

Not that he wants to put off making love to her. It's only that he knows he has to. He's loved her for a very long time; he knew that when asked her to marry him. Sometimes he wonders what their marriage would have been like at this point if Matthew hadn't died, but that thought seems so alien to reality that he never reaches any conclusions; it's just unimaginable. He's loved her body and soul, and now that he lives with her at times it's very difficult to forget that. To him she's strikingly beautiful, she's always beautiful, even in black, even with her eyes tired and her face deeply lined with fatigue and sadness. Every time he presses a chaste kiss to her temple or her cheek and gets a brief scent of her, the salt of her skin and the lavender of her hair, he has to close his eyes against the tide of feeling, of longing it causes him. He thought it was bad when she was in France. Longing is so much more difficult when it's for someone who is constantly close enough to touch. The mornings when he wakes holding her more often than not he's hard, and he has to get out of bed quickly before she wakes up and notices. He hates to think of her waking alone, but he knows he has to. He_ has_ to.

…**...**

He thinks she doesn't notice when he slips out of bed early to run himself a cold bath. It's quite endearing, really. And gallant, very gallant indeed. And, she's realised since she's been living in his house, so hopelessly Richard. Trying to be good, but in the most infinitely frustrating way. She hates to think of him being frustrated too by this whole process and knows he has every right to ask her to fulfil his needs. But she knows he would never dream of asking. And she's too shy. For the first time in her life, she's painfully shy. She opens her mouth to tell him it's alright, and no words come out. Possibly because "alright" isn't exactly how she'd describe their situation at the moment; but it alright of _him_, there's nothing wrong with wanting. God knows, she knows that. She can't even tell him she loves him; wonderful, frustrating man. She wasn't sure before, but living with him she's grown to be sure. It's too hard. This, of all things at the moment, is too hard.

…**...**

It's something small in the end. It's cold, it's icy outside, and she slips when she goes out to pick the milk bottle up from the doorstep. The fall itself is very slight and doesn't hurt her, but the bottle breaks at she hits it against the step, cold milk soaking through her skirt and glass shattering next to her hand, cutting her, but not deeply. He hears a smash and is there in seconds, running throught the front hall in his shirtsleeves. He helps her up; wraps her first in his arms and then a moment later in a blanket as he settles her into an armchair in the sitting room. She is shivering from cold and shock.

There is a little shard of glass in her hand. He gets his medical bag; the tweezers, antiseptic, bandages, extracts it as carefully as he can and cleans the wound. It's only when he's wrapping the bandage around her hand that he looks up at her face and sees that she's crying. Tears are streaming quietly down her face. He says nothing until he has finished the bandage.

Then he gets up from the stool he was perched on, sits on the arm of her chair, draws her into his arms, pressing her head against his chest as she begins, at last, to howl.

"Yes," he whispered to her softly, "Yes. That's it, Isobel." Pressing a hand to her shoulder and then wrapping it further around to embrace her more securely, "That's it, my darling. Just let it all out."

Her body does not so much shake as convulse with grief. The sobs wrack her throat so hard that they are silent, her mouth moving furiously. He holds her injured hand gently against her chest, preventing her from making it any worst by beating her fist against her knee. All he can do is bury his face in hair and wait for it too stop, breathing the soft smell of her. He feels her head tremble against his, and his thumbs brush soothingly against her sides.

For a long time they are still, like that, holding each other, together. He moves first, kissing her cheek once, moving down to her jaw and kissing once there too. Chastely but fervently, wanting to convey all his love.

"Isobel," he tells her quietly, "Anything you need. _Anything_."

She is quiet for a few moments. She picks up his hand in her good one; kisses the tips of his fingers softly, seductively, drawing the last softly into her mouth and sucking for the briefest of seconds. Then she looks almost abashed when she look up into his eyes, having made it very plain just what she needs.

"I want..." she murmurs a little helplessly, still not knowing how to ask in words, "I need..."

But she has asked as clearly as she needs to. He only waits a beat longer. Standing, he helps her up and leads her silently towards the stairs, silently up to their bedroom.

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her properly, breathing her in, licking her lips, drawing her lower lip between his own.

"Is this what you need?" he asks her.

"Yes," she breathes back.

"Lie down, then," he tells her, "Please, Isobel, just lie down."

He touches every inch of her as he undresses her, not troubling with any of his own clothes, he can wait. Her emotions seem to be too wrought for her to trouble much about exposing her body to him; she looks shy as he removes her corset, but he sinks his mouth into her bosom so reverently that it seems to assuage any worries she has. He spends an inordinate length of time playing with her nipples, kneading the swell of her bosom, refusing to divert his attention so that in the end she wraps her open legs around one of his clothed thighs, rubbing herself frantically against his legs as he continues to lavish attention to her breast. She comes with a whimper, his mouth sucking gentle patterns on her breast, a surge of moisture from her centre soaking through his trousers.

It's only then that he caves in to her plea to touch her, _there_. She is beautifully hot, and sticky with more heat, and he barely pauses before he is rubbing more circles on her nub, pushing her folds apart with his fingers, pressing only lightly, so that she has to grind her hips against his hand to feel him as she wants to. He is painfully hard for her as she rocks herself to another climax against and then on his fingers, but he wants to do this for her, he wants to make her feel _something good_, for once in these painful months. She can take whatever, however much, she likes from him, because this is love and this is what he wants to give her.

By the time he has given her her third orgasm by lavishing kisses on her sex, holding her hips fast so she when she ruts herself violently against his lips the beautiful taste of her dances across his mouth, she is crying, moaning softly, shaking from the force of her climaxes and the calls of his name that have been torn from her throat. Her sex, lying softly beneath his hand where he is cupping her groin, is swollen, and he knows that if they make love now he is going to have to be very careful with her.

"Richard," she murmurs, "Richard... just... Inside me. Now."

He's already holding her body, smoothing her skin, soothing her, and one by one he has removed his layers of clothing while he was waiting for her to recover. He's amazed he doesn't come the moment he slides into her, and feels her exquisite tightness excerting the same blissful pressure as her arms around him. He hears her moan again, throatily, and it's all he can do to keep still until he knows she's alright. When she wraps her legs around his waist, he knows it's alright; it feels alright. He begins to move, setting as slow a pace as he can manage.

He kisses her lips, mouthing against her collarbone. He can feel himself quickening, and he puts his hands on her breasts to try to help her along.

"Richard," he hears her murmur hoarsely to him, "Richard, it's alright."

He continues to thrust carefully, making himself go slowly.

"Richard," she tells him again, "Harder. Please."

She pushes her pelvis higher up, making him go deeper into her. He groans, muffling his face on her shoulder. He can feel her kissing him. His hand slips further down between them, he knows he can't last, and back to her sex, brushing her as tenderly and as carefully as he can.

"Richard," she whispers, her head slowly rolling upwards, drunken with sensuality, "I love you. My darling, I love you."

He knows she's telling him it's alright again, but it's so much more powerful when she says it like this.

"I love you, I love you," she chants it with his movements, "I- Yes!" she stiffens hard against him as her climax hits her, and groaning in final relief he finally feels his release as he spills himself between her legs, his head still buried in her shoulder.

They collapse together back on the bed, panting, their bodies wrapped inextricable together, hearts hammering against each other.

Finally they are still and silent. For a long time they are still and silent, but not asleep.

"Richard," she finally speaks, her voice barely above a whisper, "That was-..."

"That was no less than you deserved," he told her, "That was what you needed."

"Yes," she agreed, "By God, I needed it."

They were both quiet again for a few moments.

"That was wonderful, Richard," she told him quietly.

"Thank you, my darling," he replied, "You've no idea how glad I am to hear that."

She kissed him once on the lips.

"I meant it, you know," she told him after a while, "I love you."

"I love you too."

He brushed his hand round her face, smiling at her. Her lips split into a small smile too.

"Sleep now, my love," he told her; and once more she buried her head against his chest.

**End.**

**Please review if you have the time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I felt I had to write a bit more to round this story off. Also, I am open to the idea of writing a third little chapter to go after this- which would literally be smut for smut's sake- if it is wanted.**

When she woke up she felt his arms around her. Her arms rested on top of his, holding on to them soundly. His chin rested snugly above the top of her head. For a long while, she lay there, facing away from him but knowing from the sound and the slow movements of his breathing that he was still asleep. A feeling not so much of consolation as pure safety seemed to engulf her with every gentle repeated undulation of his sleeping form. She felt absolutely no inclination to move, even- especially- when she felt his growing arousal pressing firmly against her behind. Feeling him stir slightly, she bit her lip against the slightly wicked smile she could feel forming on her face.

Her smile abated slightly as she felt the rest of his body stiffen; obviously he had woken up and realised where he was. She felt her heart almost sink as she felt the adjustment in his weight on the mattress as he shifted away from her and got up.

"Don't be ridiculous, Richard," she told him, rolling onto her back into the heat his body had left on the mattress to see him standing at the side of their bed, "Do you really think there's any need for you to leave me, in the wake of what happened last night?"

He sat down gently on the edge of the bed beside her, pulling the bedsheet up a little so it covered his lap. His had gently brushed against her head, his fingers caressing her hair, his thumb lightly tracing the line of her forehead.

"Perhaps I thought that I had to leave you because of what happened last night," he replied quietly, "I don't want you to feel like you're under any sort of pressure."

"I know I'm not," she assured him gently, "You don't have to leave the bed to remind me of it."

Reaching up, she took hold of his hand, his left hand, which rested on her hair; brought it down to her lips and kissed it, kissing his wedding ring too.

"Come back to bed, my darling," she whispered.

She sighed happily as she felt the mattress sag once again under his weight. Rolling onto her other side, she now lay facing him. The look in his eyes, she knew, matched hers exactly; she could feel her own eyes almost heavy with brightness. Her hand traced down over the outside of his, and she could think of nothing else she'd rather do in that moment than lean forwards ever so slightly so that their lips were touching, and kiss him soundly.

"I love you," she whispered in the fleeting moment when their lips broke apart.

Then, he pressed a small kiss back into her lips before leaning away a little to look at her again, and murmuring back, "I love you too. I always have."

"Oh, Richard," her lips parted a little, touched by the empathic touch in his voice as he made this quiet declaration. Her hand cupped his face, her thumb tracing the line of his cheek. His arms wrapped around her waist, holding her fast, "We should have done this years ago. We would have had years together."

"We still have years," he reminded her.

"Why didn't we, though?" she pressed on softly, "Why did it take this?"

He was quiet for long moments.

"I need to know that you needed me," he told her finally, "Like this. Or I'd have never believed that you wanted me."

"Don't be silly, Richard," she admonished softly, though not smiling.

"Why should you want me?" he asked, "Beautiful you. Why should you even look twice at me?"

"I've seen you making love," she reminded him, "Don't tell me you're not beautiful. Don't blush, Richard," she told him quite seriously, though enjoying the pleasant flush of heat she felt beneath her fingers, "Do you know what you did for me last night? Do you?"

"I made love to you," he replied, almost shyly.

"You gave me back my life. You made me want to live again. You showed me that I can still feel love, really _feel _it."

He was quiet for a moment, awed.

"My life isn't worth anything without you," he told her quietly, "I've lived on my love for you for years, for far longer, even, than I'd care to admit."

She smiled at him, pressing another kiss to his cheek, then to his lips.

"Well, that's very much your own folly," she told him, her smile still dancing across her lips, "But I can't tell you I'm sorry for it. I know I wouldn't have survived these last weeks without you. I'd have gone mad."

His thumb traced caresses back and forward on her back, straying towards and then away from her spine. He did not say anything, only watched her throat carefully, as if tracing the lines with his eyes, seeming to listen to the sound of her voice intently. It was good; it helped her to keep talking, saying things, she felt she owed him this honesty after all the care he had given her.

"I'm so glad I married you," she confessed, "No matter what was going through my mind at the time. I'm so in love with you now."

His face seemed to break out in the most emphatic smile she had ever seen him wear, and it surprised her, made her smile too.

"And no one," she told him in a much lower voice, "Has ever made love to me like you did last night. Richard, I've never-..." she stopped short, not sure how to tell him with out sounding as if she was exaggerating or being insincere, "It's never been like that for me before."

"Nor for me," he admitted, "But that doesn't surprise me," he concluded a moment's thought, "I've never felt like this before. Never been married before."

She swallowed, knowing that even if it remained unspoken, it would not assuage either of their consciousness that she had been. So, softly, she told him, truthfully;

"I've never needed anyone like I needed you last night before."

She knew he believed her by the look of acceptance on his face.

"Do you need me now?" he asked.

"You need me," she observed, running her hand slowly down his side, to gently smooth his length between her fingers, "And I want you."

"Isobel," he murmured in a low gruff voice, his breathing becoming more laboured all of a sudden as her hand tightened around his.

"I love you, Richard," she whispered, her lips returning to his.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	3. Chapter 3

She pressed her lips fervently against his, bearing down over him a little. One of her hands pinned his gently down to the mattress- not that she didn't know he could have easily have shaken her off had he wanted to- and her other slowly moving up and down his length, warm and hard under her fingers. She smiled against his lips, pulling away from him a little but her hands holding fast.

"Richard, you're beautiful," she told him softly, bowing her head to kiss his chest softly, nuzzling against the growth of grey-dark hair that lay in the centre of his chest. Where her cheekbone made contact with his skin, he could feel his heart beating eagerly, "I know you're not supposed to tell men that, but I don't care. I think you're beautiful," she spoke so quietly she wondered if he could hear her over his laboured breathing but when she paused for a moment she could clearly sense that he was hanging on to her every word, "I love you, so of course you're beautiful to me, but when you're like this..." She paused again, kissing his chest once more, "God," she admitted, "I never imagined you'd be like this. Richard, you're magnificent."

"Isobel," he groaned her name in a low voice as she continued to mover her hand up and down, his arms wrapping around her, and holding her more closely to him. He always touched her tenderly, but this time she felt his fingers tighten just a notch beyond what was comfortable on her shoulder. She had a feeling it had something to do with the hard time he was having keeping control.

"What's the matter, my darling?" she asked him gently, "Don't you like this?"

"Like it?" his eyes drifted slowly shut, "Oh, Isobel. If only you-..."

She cut him off, raining kisses down on his chest again, gradually tracing her way down to his navel.

"Isobel," his voice came out in a mixture between a sentence and a moan, "You don't have to, you know."

"I know," she replied, looking up at him, "And that's why I want to. And because of what you did for me earlier. I need to do this for you, I want to do it."

She pressed a kiss down onto his length, heard him hiss with pleasure, and withdrew just an inch.

"I want you to let go for me, Richard," she told him, "Can you do that? No, shhh," she silenced him with another kiss, cupping him softly in her hand, "Don't worry about it. Don't. Just let go."

And with that, she drew him into her mouth as deep as he would go, running her teeth lightly back and forth along his length, swirling her tongue around the tip. She could feel the tension in his hips as he tried desperately not to thrust into her mouth. She swallowed hard and she could hear him moaning. Humming quietly against him, she cupped him in her other hand once again, caressing him, coaxing him until finally she felt the tension slip as he threw back his head, coming in her mouth. His hand was pressed into her hair, but he was not hurting her. She felt his hips rocking frantically beside her, and once he stopped, she leant her head on his thigh, gently fondling him clean as his breathing slowly calmed down.

"Isobel," he spoke her name so softly after having called in wildly at the height of his climax, "That was-... I don't... No one's ever-..."

"Never?" she asked curiously, surprised at _that_.

"Never as willingly as you," he told her, pulling her up to his end of the bed so he could hold her as he lay, "I've certainly never been... taken, not like that."

She could feel herself blushing furiously.

"I suppose you find me very brazen?" she asked him, feeling almost shy of his answer.

"I love you," he told her, "I think you're remarkable. I-..."

"What?" she pressed him, stroking her hand carefully across his chest, "Whatever it is, Richard, say it."

He remained quiet.

"We're married," she whispered to him, "You're a part of me."

He swallowed hard, but once he made eye contact with her, he did not break it.

"Last night," he began, "When we were-..."

"Making love," she supplied clearly for him, watching him carefully.

"Making love," he agreed, "I was so shocked."

"By what?" she asked.

"You," he replied, "And by myself in a way. I couldn't believe you came," he confessed, "I've never made love to a woman like you before. I've never wanted to please someone so much before, I was convinced that I wouldn't be able. You're incredible, Isobel, I really mean it. You have such life in you, even though recently it might not have felt like that. I've seen you grieve: even your sadness is passionate. It used to frighten me, but now I need it, I can't get enough of it. You're so incredible," he repeated, "I never thought I'd be able to fulfil someone like you, Isobel. I can't imagine I'm making much sense," he added, almost as an afterthought, seeing the look on her face.

She smiled at him.

"No, Richard," she replied, "You're not. I never thought for a moment that you wouldn't be able to satisfy me. I knew you would be able to the moment you brought me up to bed, the moment I felt your lips, and, oh, when you touched me."

"I love you," he whispered, kissing her, her hands cupping his face, holding her close to him.

"I love you too, Richard," she told him.

"Isobel?" he asked gently, "When I touched you, was it like this?"

His hand pressed gently to her breast, caressing her nipple gently.

"Yes," she groaned, "Oh, yes, Richard, like that. And-..." she trailed off, her head falling back as he continued to press gentle circles into her breast.

"And what?" he asked patiently, "Tell me, my love."

"When you, _there_," she told him, "When you... opened me."

"Like this?" he asked, slipping his other hand between her legs, parting her folds and pushing a single finger inside her.

"Oh, God, yes, like that."

"Come on," he told her, "Come on, my beautiful Isobel. Take what you need."

"I need-... from you... more."

"This?" he asked, slipping another finger inside her.

"Yes," she groaned, barely able to speak, "And, your thumb. Please."

"There?" he asked, pressing it firmly against her clitoris.

"Oh, yes. Oh, Richard, sweetheart."

His hand did not move.

"Come on, my love," he told her, "Take what you want."

There was a moment's pause, then slowly, she began to lift and lower herself onto his fingers, her hips moving with an element of precision, taking as much as she could before sinking back. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the feeling of his fingers filling her, his thumb rubbing her.

"Richard," she moaned, "Help me, please. I need more."

He let her move herself for a few more seconds, before beginning to move his hand with her, so that she felt twice the friction. He heard her give a surprised moan, her eyes opening.

"Yes, Richard," she murmured, "Please, touch my breasts too- YES!" she cried as his mouth latched onto her nipple, "Like that."

He lapped hungrily at her breasts, moving his fingers all the while as her hips shook beneath him, rutting herself against his hand as he stroked her towards her climax.

"Richard, I can't-..."

"Then don't," he whispered, just as she had done to him, "Come on, my love, let go."

He heard her cry out as he felt the rush of moisture about his hand as she finally let herself come. He felt her bury her head in his shoulder, waiting for her climax to abate. Her breathing was heavily laboured.

"I've got you my love," he told her, gently, stroking her back as her hips rocked in towards his body, "I've got you. I love you."

**End. (This time.)**

**Please review if you have the time.**


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